Souls Remain
by Incog Ninja
Summary: Bethyl. Post-ALONE AU (Beth isn't taken.) A series of vignettes about Beth and Daryl alone on the road, surviving, tracking their family, and finding their way around each other. The assumption is that they are together, so this is M-rated; what transpires is their journey through finding out what "together" means. Beth's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**Prompt (from MsKathy): Beth breaks her arm and Daryl has to bathe her. And wash her hair.**

****I will consider prompts for future chapters, so if you're looking for a particular scene for these two, drop me a review or send me a PM with your idea.****

**AN: Let's pretend that a) Beth sprained her wrist instead of her ankle, b) they found an abandoned farmhouse (instead of a trap-y funeral home), and c) Beth wasn't subsequently snatched. This started as a PWP one-shot, and then Beth's intimacy issues got in the way; so now it's going to be a series of vignettes about the two of them overcoming their respective relationship issues in the middle of a ZA of all fucking places. Enjoy!**

You need two hands to wash your hair, especially when you have to use a pitcher of water to wet and rinse it. I miss showers—even a camping shower would work right now.

"Damn sprained wrist," I say to myself as I set the fourth pitcher of water I carried up the stairs on the counter surrounding the sink basin. I spot two toothbrushes in a cup on the opposite side of the basin and realize the people who lived here probably left with quite literally the clothes on their backs.

I wet one of the toothbrushes with the water and inspect it. I decide that using a stranger's new-looking toothbrush is the least of my worries in this world and proceed to scrub at my teeth. My free hand is throbbing so I raise it above my head to relieve the pressure of blood rushing to the area. I really hate being helpless, no matter what Daryl thinks about me being some kind of pretty, little princess, who's had things done for me my whole life. I think he forgets the simple facts that I was raised on a farm, and the world ended when I was sixteen. I'm not a debutante; I never was. Still, I'm sick of walker guts in my hair, and we actually found a secure place—a house, even—to rest for the night.

When I'm done with my teeth I strip down to my bra and undies and think about standing in the tub and dousing myself with the pitchers of water I pumped from the well outside. Just as I work the logistics out in my brain, Daryl waltzes into the bathroom with two giant buckets of steaming water.

"Where'd those come from?" I ask, totally unconcerned with my partial nudity. I eye him as he empties one of the containers into the bathtub then reaches for one of my pitchers.

"What, you think I don't know how to boil water without a stove?" He scoffs and pours the cold water in with the hot then mixes it a little with his hands. While he washes his hands with the liquid soap I was planning to use for my sponge bath, he looks me up and down. "Nice panties," he says with a small smirk, and I half-heartedly flip him off. "Get in, princess."

I feel my face twist and my brow arch. Then I scoff back at him before dipping my toe into the water. "You're so condescending." I don't even stifle the moan rumbling in my chest; the water is divine.

Daryl shakes the excess water from his clean hands. "Ain't condescending, it's a term of endearment." He crosses the room and rifles through a drawer. In the flickering light of the candles, he looks darker and dirtier than he does in the daylight.

"Term of endearment?" I climb into the tub and settle into the water, leaning back against the quickly warming porcelain. My eyes close of their own volition. I can't remember the last time I had a bath, let alone a hot one. "Daryl Dixon, I would never have pegged you as the type to use a term of endearment," I mumble a little because I'm so relaxed.

"Yeah, well, we both know what type you pegged me as."

"Stop it." I hate that after all this time together, he still thinks I look down on him.

I can hear him shuffling around the room, clothes rustling, and water sloshing outside my warm bath. Then I feel his presence close to me. "Sit up," he says, his voice low and quiet. I open my eyes to slits—just enough to see that he's vestless and shirtless. I smile a little bit before closing my eyes again and lean forward, hanging my head.

"Good thing ya took those braids out and got the chunks of shit out," he mutters. Then the warm water hits the back of my neck and sluices over my skin and through my hair. I grab the side of the tub with my good hand and exhale long and loud. Daryl chuckles next to me. "Good?"

I hum and nod. "So good." I pause. Then, "thank you."

"Mmhmm," he answers, using the hand not dipping the pitcher into the bucket of warm, mixed water to finger through my strands and massage my scalp. His hand is large and warmed by the water. He's gentle yet firm, as always, with the way he touches and guides me. His fingers comb through, loosening tangles as much as possible. Then I hear a cap flip open and smell peppermint within seconds.

We're both silent as he massages the soap into my scalp and through my hair. The minty suds drip down the sides of my face and neck, over my chest and into the water. Once he's thoroughly worked it through my hair he works his hands down the back of my neck and shoulders. "This okay?" His voice is barely above a whisper.

I don't hesitate to nod. "Yes, please." The nod is really wobbly, though; like one of those bobble-head dolls you see in novelty shops. I dip my hand into the water and lightly splash some of it onto my chest, completely drenching my bra, as Daryl thumbs and fingers the knots in my shoulders loose. "Ya know, I should be doin' this for you."

"In a minute, princess," he says, reaching for the pitcher and slowly pouring the water over my head, neck, and back. He takes his time to work as much of the soap out of my hair as he can. It rinses surprisingly well.

I raise my head and wipe the excess water from my eyes before opening them. "Get in," I say, swirling my sprained hand in the water and watching for his reaction. We've been dancing around a certain tension between us for weeks now. I swear that every time we lock eyes, the combination to unlock them gets more and more complicated.

He's sitting on a small stool next to the tub. His eyes are smiling, and that makes me happy. He finally breaks eye contact when he stands and unbuckles his belt, though. I keep swirling my hands through the water as I watch his pants drop to the floor—belt intact in the loops. For some reason, I'm disappointed that he's wearing underwear.

"Found a closet full of clothes," he says conversationally, as he steps into the water behind me. His feet slide under my thighs and his knees brush my sides as he crouches and settles in the water. "Be able to change, if ya want." He follows the length of my dirty bra strap from the top of my shoulder to where it meets the back strap with the tip of his finger. "Looks like the woman who lived here was small like you."

"Happy to hear that," I say, reaching behind my back and unhooking the sodden bra. I carelessly toss it to the floor of the bathroom with a wet slap before leaning back into Daryl, his bare chest warmly enveloping me. We've slept like this, but never skin on skin. I feel like this space, the curve of his body and his arms were made for me; we fit together so well. He curls one arm around my waist and rests the other on the side of the tub where my good hand was gripping a few minutes before.

Up close, his skin looks smooth if sun and work worn. He has random tattoos in random places on his arms and chest, and one large one on his back. Still, I'm always surprised at how healthy and young he looks, when so many others look aged beyond their years. I briefly wonder just how old he really is, but then I realize it doesn't matter one damn bit.

I sigh with satisfaction and rest my injured wrist and hand on the arm holding me close to his body. "Thanks for doin' this," I say. "For comin' out of the woods again. I know you're more comfortable out there, but this is," I pause to find the best words. "Really nice." I settle on 'nice' because there isn't anything to describe how perfect the moment feels—night has fallen and it's quiet, the only sound from out- or inside the house is the wind and crickets, and even with a throbbing wrist I couldn't feel more safe and comfortable than I do with Daryl like this.

And then I feel something else; Daryl shifts his hips and I feel him hard in the small of my back. My nipples tighten immediately and my own hips arch backward on instinct. I close my eyes and my breath catches in my throat, and use both hands and arms to keep him in place, when I feel him tense up.

"Beth." His gasp of my name hangs in the air, and I drop my head back onto his shoulder, as I pull his other arm around me—higher this time—and his forearm brushes my tight, aching nipples.

"Just hold me for a minute?" I ask. "I'll wash your hair next." It takes a good 30 seconds before the tension relaxes from his body and he settles into holding me the way I asked. He's still hard behind me, and it thrills me that I've had that affect on him. I realize that I'm the only woman alive to him at this point, but as long as I've known him, he's never been with anyone. I'll take this as a compliment.

"Don't need to," he mumbles, resting his head against my temple with a sigh. His steady breathing is in my ear. "Can do it myself."

"I know, but I want to," I answer, slowly grinding back against him. I want a lot of things, I think to myself. I'm exhausted and frazzled, disconnected and desperate. I need something to put me back together again, right my body and mind. It feels to me like Daryl wants that as much as I do. In my periphery, I can see his eyes are closed and he's smiling softly. He shakes his head and draws a deep breath.

After a few silent minutes of soaking in the slowly cooling water, he says, "Water's coolin' off. Should wrap this up." His fingers squeeze my waist, and I don't want to get out. But he's right; the water is getting cool, and it's kind of filthy.

"Should take it to bed," I say, sitting forward, away from his warmth and his arms, and turning to look over my shoulder, so I can see his face. He gnaws at the inside of his bottom lip and nods, looking down into the murky water. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, which is extremely rare with Daryl. This vulnerable side of him is something I never saw before we were alone together outside the prison.

I scoop some of the warmer water from the bucket and stand. Daryl looks up and watches as I pour half the pitcher of water down my torso and legs, rinsing the dirty water away. He chews on his thumbnail when I set the pitcher aside and remove my underwear. I toss them to the floor with my discarded bra, then quickly suds up my torso and legs, before rinsing and climbing out of the tub.

Daryl appears deep in thought, tapping his bottom lip with his finger and staring me down. He tracks my every move with his gaze, as I wrap one towel around my body and one in my hair. Once I grab the ACE bandage we found earlier to compress my wrist, I pause and turn to face him full on. "Wanna help?" I gesture with the roll of stretchy fabric.

He stops chewing his thumbnail and nods. "Be right there," he says, dropping his head back and stretching his legs out. Without another word I turn and head to the bedroom. It's right around the corner, and I don't close the door, so I can hear Daryl cleaning up.

Moonlight streams through the bedroom windows; I can see perfectly fine to grab a change of clothes and socks and shove them in my bag. I set my bag next to the bed with my boots and find a bottle of lavender scented body lotion and a hairbrush on the dresser. I unwind the towel from my hair and drape it over the back of a chair then set to work brushing out the few snarls left after Daryl's handiwork.

It isn't long before he enters the room, a clean, white towel tied around his waist. His hair is wet and he's barefoot; it's another one of those moments when I see this bare, trusting side of him that floors me. He's carrying his vest in one hand and the candle in the other. "Damn, it's bright in here, huh?" he says before blowing the candle out and setting it aside then tossing his vest to a pile of new-to-him clothes and his boots. He must've gathered things for himself earlier when he found the closet.

I sit on the edge of the bed and begin to smooth lotion over my arms and legs. There's a comfortable domesticity to the moment, and I start to hum. Then I feel Daryl's eyes on me and he's drawing near.

"Where's that bandage?" he asks. I point to the dresser where I swapped it out for the lotion, and he snatches it from its place. "Need to get that thing wrapped up—looks like Hell."

I nod and leave the lotion alone. I idly wonder how he's going to play this. He's not avoiding me, obviously, because he's reaching for my hand. He is kind of acting like his massive erection wasn't just pressed into my back, though. "Thanks," I say, as he pulls the dressing table chair closer to the bed and takes a seat facing me.

He bobs his head and begins to inspect my injury—pokes and prods the swollen area and gently twists and moves it. I wince and hiss a few times, but it doesn't take him long to get my wrist tightly and expertly wrapped. "You take that ibuprofen?" he asks, flicking his eyes up to meet mine, and I nod. Then his gaze moves down to my mouth and over my throat and chest. Goosebumps cover my bare skin, and I don't even care that he can see them.

He licks his lips and rests his hands on my knees. "Sleepin' in a wet towel?" he asks, fingering the edge of the towel where it lays slightly agape in my lap. I can't stop my legs from spreading, and I hope he takes the hint.

Daryl tilts his head and smiles, then slips a finger under the edge of the towel, between the soft cotton and my skin. He drags his eyes up to meet mine again, and I'm suddenly hyper aware that I'm panting and gripping the bedspread with my good hand. I realize that I haven't answered his question yet, though. I let go of the bedspread and unfasten the towel's knot just above my breasts. It falls open at my sides and he licks his lips again and groans.

It's a cool night and he's still just barely touching me; he's teasing me with his fingertips. To complement the goosebumps, my nipples are peddle hard. I reach down and grab his hand, bring it to my lips and kiss his palm before holding it flat to my collarbone. I catch his eye one more time. "I want this," I say, twisting and scooting back on the bed, bringing him with me. "C'mon."

He nods and climbs on the bed with me, hovering over me. Once I'm lying with my head on a pillow I let go of his hand and let myself relax underneath him. He's braced on one arm and drags his other hand down between my breasts. "How 'bout you?" I tease. "You sleepin' in a wet towel?" He smiles and shakes his head, then kneels between my open thighs and pulls his towel from his hips. He's visibly hard, and I buck my hips on instinct.

"There's a whole lotta this, ya know?" he says, running his hands from my knees to my hips and back down again. "So I need to know what it is that ya want."

"You," I answer. "I want you." I reach for him and he let's me pull him down with me. He's careful to not bump my injured hand, but he presses my other hand into the mattress before burying his face in my neck. His lips and teeth wetly pull at my skin, and I gasp at the sensation. And then his hand between my thighs overwhelms me.

"Yeah, ya know what ya want, don't ya?" he chuckles and hums, his voice taking on a quality that I've never heard from him, another level of Daryl that isn't taciturn or bashful; he's bold in this moment. He's making my insides liquefy and flow from where he's touching me. His fingers part my lips, and slip and slide around and just barely inside. I buck my hips again, trying to get him further and faster inside. He complies with one long slide and curl of his middle finger. "Like that? Hmm?"

"Yes." I drop my knees open and he moves in closer. "More." I grab his wrist and hold his hand in place while he slips another finger inside me. "And then," I gasp, pressing the heel of his hand over my clit. I hiss. "Yes. Just like that." I throw my arms open wide and to the sides and let him work.

His free hand is twists the ends of my damp hair in his fingers, and his lips and tongue and teeth are keeping my sensitive nipples peaked. He's making some pretty obscene sounds, too—lip smacking and groaning—while his hand works me up. "Taste like peppermint," he says, swirling his tongue around my nipple. "Wonder what your pussy tastes like." He doesn't wonder long; before I know it he's slid down and wedged his shoulders between my thighs and his tongue is swirling something else.

"Daryl," I pause to catch my breath because I honestly have no idea what else to say. Instead of continuing to babble, I grab a handful of his thick, wet hair and concentrate on his lips and tongue and fingers. When I come, his tongue is flat against my clit, and he's sliding and twisting two fingers inside me.

"Wow," I breathe as he settles beside me, his hand gently cupping me between my legs. "I've never had that done before."

"Two boyfriends and neither of 'em ever ate ya out? Pfft—pansies."

I giggle and my voice is hoarse and tired. I curl into his chest, cradling my sprained wrist between us, and use my good hand to wander and explore the parts of his body I can reach. "How's your skin so soft?" I ask off-hand, and he snorts.

"Girl, what?" he says, like I'm insane and I laugh harder than a giggle this time.

Finally my hand finds what it was searching for and I wrap it around his hardness. He's smooth there, too, and hot. And I feel him pulse a few times in my grip. "Okay?" I ask and kiss his chest. He nods kisses my temple, his hand resting on my hip.

I start to move my hand up and down, squeezing and twisting lightly, then swipe my thumb over the head to gather the moisture building up. I've always been fascinated by the male anatomy, and Daryl does not disappoint; he's large and thick and slightly curved. The curve thing has always been a mystery to me because I've only seen pictures. I wonder what he'll feel like inside me. When I try to imagine that feeling, there's a tightening in my chest, and I can't breathe for a second.

His thumb draws circles on my hip bone, and I lean forward and lick his sharp collarbone. "Will ya come for me, if I keep doin' this?" I ask, stroking him and peppering kisses across his chest.

"Ya kiddin' me?" His breath hitches. "I'ma get your sweet-smellin' skin all dirty again, princess."

I rest my ear over his heart. Looking down at my hand, pumping his hot, smooth hard-on, watching him twitch and pulse under my attention is not only a big boost to my self-esteem, but it's a huge turn on.

"Mmm, that's it," he moans. "That's fuckin' it, right there."

I look up into his face, and he surprises me again with the most open expression I never could have imagined for him. It's beautiful, though. Daryl is beautiful. He looks trusting and happy, and it's me he trusts. He dips his head and melds his lips and tongue with mine, and I can feel something in my chest swell to bursting, as he spills warm and wet over my fist and onto my bare belly.

I'm breathless and speechless, and I let him drag me with him to the edge of the bed. He uses his damp, discarded towel to clean us both up. "My body's like a bowl of Jell-O," I say tiredly. Daryl chuckles and pulls me back to the center of the bed and tucks us both under the covers. Exhausted and sated, I hum when he curls around me and fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

**Thanks to Rhanon Brodie for being my conscience and my confidence. *twirly hearts* **


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Khalil Gibran's words are heavy inspiration for the tone I'm working with in this series. Souls Remain is itself a lift from a quote of Gibran's: "The things which a child loves remain in the domain of the heart until old age. The most beautiful thing in life is that our souls remain over the places where we once enjoyed ourselves."**

****Don't forget that I'm taking prompts for this series. Just leave a comment in the box or DM me. :)****

**This photoset inspired thoughts of Bethyl morning sex, then I received this prompt from MamaDCB: "Would love for you to do a part two... The next morning and more sexy time." This isn't the next morning per se, but I hope you like it, Mama! xox**

**Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.**

I'm dreaming about the farm—about our horses and chickens, breakfast at our bright dining room table with Mama and Daddy and Maggie, and watching the sunset from our front porch. Maggie and Mama and I used to come up with elaborate hairstyles for each other and paint our toenails on the weekends Maggie was home from school. In the summer, Mama would make pitcher after pitcher of Arnold Palmers with sun-made sweet tea and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Daddy called us "his girls"; he was so proud.

I awake to a large, warm hand on the bare skin of my back and I remember where I am. My heart skips a beat, and my stomach drops; Mama and Daddy are dead, the farm is burned, and Maggie's just as frantic as I am in this world.

Daryl's hand slides across my back and around my waist then down over my hip, pushing the sheet out of his way. Between my thighs, his thick fingers tease me, slipping around and up and down, but never inside. I lay still on my belly and slowly bring my leg up, hoping he'll get the hint; I want him inside me, on top of me, holding me down and keeping me warm.

I keep my eyes closed as I roll toward him to my back. Within seconds, he's fitting snug between my legs, the soft, lavender colored sheet, carefully purchased by another person in days gone by, twisting around our legs. I reach up behind me and grab the headboard. On the heels of my dream and in the early morning sun, I don't feel like talking yet, but I can already tell he knows what I want. He grips my hand, holding the headboard and braces his other on the mattress at my side. Then he slowly edges his way inside me in that teasing kind of way. I love it because he's so thick and hard I feel every movement, pushing and twisting.

Once he's all the way inside, we both sigh heavily. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him down to me. We're touching everywhere, his forearms keeping leverage to slowly move, thrusting and rotating his hips, driving me up. His face is buried between my neck and the pillow, his fingers gently twisting the ends of my hair. We're both silent, except for our breathing in time. My legs and arms hold him close and I feel the flutter of my orgasm like gentle waves of the lake where I used to skinny dip with my friends, licking at my hips and curling toward the place where we're joined. Daryl surges on and I imagine what we look like together, my thin, pale legs hugging his strong hips and my hands clinging to his broad, war-torn back and shoulders.

When I think of what Daryl went through in his life before, it's no wonder he's as careful and deliberate as he is in this one. And while I do not wish the kind of pain he's endured upon anyone I care for, I'm thankful for Daryl, the way his is, everyday.

He sweeps his hips back and forth three times, and I gasp and arch my back; that's what he was waiting for. He braces himself on strong arms and doubles down, slamming into me. I feel a swell from my belly to my thighs and I hold fast to him as it pours over me. "Aah," I gasp, head back, Daryl's mouth caressing my throat. I'm left warm and wet, like a puddle in a summer rainstorm, as Daryl finds his own break.

##

We work silently to set up camp. We couldn't find a house tonight, and I'm longing for that soft bed and its lavender sheets, and the luxury of time and space that it afforded us. Tonight I'll be wrapped in a plastic tarp while Daryl keeps watch. I'm longing even more for Daryl to be wrapped around me. But when we camp out in the woods like this, I don't get that indulgence.

I wonder if he purposely chose to stay in the woods tonight to keep a distance between us. I couldn't blame him if he did. I've been feeling guilty for enjoying him as much as I have been these past few weeks. We still haven't found Maggie. I know we can't stay like this forever. Once we catch up with everybody, we'll have to stop… whatever it is we're doing.

"How's that fire comin'?" Daryl asks, circling around me just beyond arm's length, as he triple checks the perimeter of our camp for the night.

I bob my head, readjusting my focus on my task. "Good," I answer.

"Good," he echoes, shuffling and fidgeting in my periphery, until the fire catches full. "Get your bed laid out over there." He waves a hand away from the fire. "I'll take care of the squirrel."

I nod and unfold to standing. He brushes against my hip and shoulder as he takes up the space I occupied. I shiver slightly at the memory of our bare skin sliding against each other's, his hips working against mine between my thighs, his lips and tongue at my throat. I replay the morning in my mind as I lay out the sleeping pad and the large sheet of plastic, then roll everything else up as a pillow.

I wonder if he regrets it. I certainly don't; we deserve to comfort each other this way, and I didn't force him into anything. The bath last week, and the bed this morning—they were natural progressions of a man and a woman who are alone and caring for each other. He's acting like he regrets it, though. Or like he didn't like it.

I shouldn't let this bother me—Daryl's just quiet and keeps to himself, and I never cared before. Zach was one to cuddle. He wanted to show his affection in front of everyone, like a declaration or something—and I had to hold him off. Now, in the middle of the woods, I want Daryl to, what? Declare his _whatever_ feelings for me to the squirrels? And if he did, what would I do? Do I want it just because I don't have it? Is this some kind of leftover slut-paranoia from before the world ended? Am I worried what people would think, if there were people anywhere near us? Am I overanalyzing? _Yes_.

"Darlin'." I hear Daryl's voice, but it doesn't register that he's speaking to me until he touches my arm. "Beth." I look up at him and he looks half concerned and half amused. "Gonna strangle that bundle to death, or ya gonna have some supper?"

I look down and I'm twisting my makeshift pillow in my hands. My knuckles are white and my face is hot. I huff an embarrassed laugh/sigh and drop the bundle to the ground. "Supper," I answer, and he cocks his jaw and nods, one brow arched. He doesn't believe me. "Really, I'm starvin'—promise." I cross my heart, and he rolls his eyes.

We move toward the fire and I realize I am actually really hungry; I'm cold, too, and I shiver again. "Cold?" Daryl asks, handing me my portion of the squirrel with a genuine look of concern. "Been shiverin' and shakin' since we stopped walkin'."

I inch closer to the fire and get settled. "Guess I am," I say, not admitting that the previous shiver was from the memories of that morning and my own psychoanalysis. "But I'll be fine once I eat."

We eat as silently as we set camp, both keeping watch, almost back to back. Once we're done and the sun is setting, Daryl tells me to get some rest. "I'm takin' first watch," he says, setting to clean and sharpen his knife, not sparing me another glance.

I rinse my hands and my face, refasten my ponytail high on my head and crawl under the plastic cover. I toss and turn and fade in and out of sleep. I can't stop thinking about my suspicions about Daryl purposely setting camp in the woods to avoid me. He didn't even discuss it with me, except for his one comment that we needed to hunt. The more I think about it, the less I can relax, and the next thing I know, he's nudging me fully awake.

"Beth?" His tone is quiet and questioning. "Ya sick or somethin'? Been tossin' and mumblin' for hours."

I sit straight up and sigh with a roll of my eyes at my own self. "What was I mumblin'?" I start pushing the plastic away from my body.

"Nothin' coherent," Daryl says, wrapping a hand around one of my knees to still my movements. "Sure you're a'right? Feelin' feverish or anythin'?" He lays the back of his hand against my forehead. He really does look and sound concerned.

I quietly study his face for a few beats until his worried gaze meets mine. As he lets his hand drop from his rudimentary testing of my temperature, his fingers brush my cheek. "Mama used to check for fevers with her lips against our foreheads," I tell him. "Said it was easier to feel the difference in temperature that way."

Daryl twists a tiny half-smile. "Tryna get a kiss outta me, Greene?"

Our eyes are locked and I slowly shake my head. I can feel his concern, his closeness in feeling and proximity, and his playful teasing from my breastbone to my fingers and toes. "If I wanted a kiss, I reckon I'd get it." My lips tingle when he breaks our gaze to stare at my mouth.

"Ya reckon?" he mutters, licking his own lips as he intently watches mine.

"Mmhmm," I answer, nodding lightly.

We aren't touching but I can feel the heat rolling off of him. He's such a physical person—impressively so. I think about all the times I'd watched Daryl, day in and day out, doing the most basic things back at the farm and the prison. I always honored and appreciated him. He's capable and strong and smart. He kept us safe and fed; he's the reason I'm alive today. But two years ago—even one—I never ever would have guessed I'd be watching him _this_ way.

His eyes drag from my lips to meet my gaze once again. The concern is replaced with mischief and I feel a flip inside my belly. Then he slowly leans forward and whispers, "your watch, princess," before leaving a quick peck on my cheek and diving into the plastic.

I sigh and roll my eyes, then crawl away from the bedding, as Daryl makes mock sounds of satisfaction and mumbles something about how "warm and cozy" it is. I roll my eyes again and stifle a giggle because I'm not really mad at him, but he doesn't need to know that. I wrap the small piece of plastic he was using for warmth around my shoulders and settle by the tree inside our noise barrier. After a few quiet moments, Daryl clears his throat and mumbles a little before asking, "sure you're okay, darlin'?"

I smile to myself in the dark. Much to my surprise, Daryl has taken to using a couple of set terms of endearment for me. Darlin' is somewhat interchangeable with my name, both of which he uses casually or when he's concerned about my well-being; princess is what he calls me when he's teasing me or, as I found out the other night, when he's _teasing_ me. "I'm fine," I answer, looking up into the black, sparkling sky overhead. I haven't discovered any terms of endearment to suit him just yet, but maybe that's for the best. "Get some rest, Daryl."

**Thanks as always to Rhanon Brodie for being my Tyler Durden. *twirly hearts***

**And I have a Bethyl rec! Check out ****_Warming Up_****by Protected By a Silver Spoon. That was my fav that I read this weekend. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I forgot last chapter that Daryl doesn't have his poncho anymore, so I changed that. Sorry for the inconsistency, guys!**

***Remember: I'm taking prompts (always, but especially for this fic), so if you'd like to see a particular interaction between these two (M-rated or not) or an issue addressed, etc., hit me with a review/comment, or drop me a message.***

**Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.**

We're running again—lungs and muscles burning, blood pounding in our ears, our breathing ragged and the sound of it all rivaling that of the herd of walkers, ambling behind us. I remember learning the first time we were out on the road, before the prison, that walkers didn't get winded like we do. Of all their stupid traits, that is the single stupidest. If there is a greater purpose for these things, wouldn't it make more sense for them to be fast and not get winded, to be able to catch us and just get it over with? No, that would be too easy.

"Tree," Daryl grunts from my left and we veer to our right. He jumps and grabs a substantial, low hanging branch and pulls himself up, quickly finding the right stability and leverage to reach down and grab me by my good wrist. He pulls me up grunting again, as I curl my knees toward my chest then throw them over the branch to seat myself next to him. We each scurry further up the tree, branch by branch, until we can't see the definition of individual walkers—only hear them and make out dark, blurry masses of movement below us. We cling to the tree and each other, catching our breath. After several moments of silence, save for our panting and the pounding of our hearts, Daryl speaks quietly again. "Rope."

I nod and swing my bag around in front of me then lean back against a sturdy branch as I locate and gather the wound up length of nylon we found the day before. I hand it to Daryl before zipping my small duffle closed and slinging it over to my side. He proceeds to tie us together and to the tree with just a breath of slack as to not cut off circulation; neither of us is going to fall from the tree.

"Get some rest," he mutters, pulling his crossbow in tight, but ready to aim. He leans his head back against a branch, and the moonlight plays across his face through the leaves on the tree, making him look like a little boy with his favorite toy tucked by his side. I imagine him as a child, curled up in the corner of the couch on a Friday night, watching his favorite TV show. But then I remember what he said about his daddy and I stop my imagination from wandering further.

"Daryl," I say, and he shushes me. I lower my voice to barely a whisper. "Sorry 'bout the deer," I speak again. I know he's kicking himself over losing our dinner—all we've got left in our packs is some berries and pecans—but I was distracting him with my teasing. "It's my fault as much as it is yours."

Daryl shakes his head. "Said get some rest," he repeats. I roll my eyes in the dark, but he knows I've done it. "And don't roll your damn eyes at me." He slides his foot forward, nudging mine in a half-hearted attempt to kick me.

I laugh quietly, nudging him back with the toe of my boot. "I am sorry, though."

I was so excited to have such a big meal, and we'd found a house to stay in for a while, even. I lost focus, though, and while Daryl was honing in on the deer despite my distracting flailing, neither of us saw the herd until it was too late. We had to abandon both the deer and the house and run for hours until we found the tree to accommodate both of us for the night.

"Ok, ok," he whispers, finally accepting my apology. "Will ya shut up now?" I nod in answer and close my eyes.

##

The temperature the next day is cooler than normal—unseasonably so, as Daddy would say. We find another house and scrape it after it had been ransacked by probably several other groups. Still there are a couple of cans of green beans, a can of tuna, a sleeve of Ritz crackers, a few packets of cherry Kool-Aid mix, a roll of electrical tape and a handful of zip ties, and a box marked "winter clothes." Inside are long-sleeved t-shirts and sweaters, a woman's raincoat and a man's fleece-lined corduroy jacket.

"Looks like you're in luck," I say, grousing over the lack of anything cozy for me.

"Layer up, princess," Daryl says off-hand as he slides into the jacket then slings his vest back over the top. The corduroy is a dark slate blue, almost charcoal. When he looks up at me I stare at his face because the color sets off his eyes in a way that stuns me for a minute. When Daryl cocks his jaw and arches a brow, I realize I've been staring way too long.

"Gimme the pink sweater," I say, dragging my gaze from his and cramming a couple of long-sleeved shirts into my bag for later.

"Yes, ma'am." Daryl smirks, making a show of leaning forward to hand me the sweater, and I blush. I hate that he can still make me blush. He does it on purpose, too.

I clear my throat, like that makes things less awkward, and boldly meet his eyes. "Thank you," I say, as I try to take the sweater from his hand. But he's got it wrapped around his wrist. That smirk is still carved into his face and it's now accompanied by a twinkle in his annoying blue eyes. I have to close my own eyes and shake my head a few times because when he acts like this, sometimes I think I must be dreaming. I open my eyes again, though, because I want to savor these moments. Once we find our family, he'll go back to the stoic, watchful protector of the group, I'm sure of it.

"Should we stay here tonight?" I broach the topic, like I have and he has so many times before. It's a mutual decision these days—ever since Daryl decided I wasn't just some weak little girl, I guess; I still wonder, though.

Daryl purses his lips and glances around the space, then looks out the window at the slowly setting sun. "Might's well," he says, shouldering his crossbow as he pushes the box out of his way with his foot to brush past me and get a better look at the outside. "Kinda in the middle of it here, but haven't seen walkers since last night." He's so much more comfortable in the woods than in neighborhoods. Even though I grew up on a farm, the homes in these neighborhoods always seem so comforting; this is the kind of place I always want to stay. If we stay here tonight, he'll be doing it for my peace of mind, not his.

"I'll start lookin' for barricades," I say, pulling my bag over my head to rest on the opposite shoulder and heading for the staircase. We cleared the house before we started looking for supplies, so I descend the stairs unworried, immediately scanning the doors and windows for nearby furniture to push in front of them. I hear Daryl coming down the stairs; he's whistling a tune I recognize from the movie _Jaws_—something about Spanish Ladies—and then he stops dead in his tracks.

I see him drop into a squat and I instinctively mimic his action, just as a look of relief washes over his face at my quick movement. Then he's gesturing to me without a sound to stay still and silent. He creeps down the stairs and I hear them: a group, surrounding the house and communicating quietly amongst each other. They're not quiet enough, though, because Daryl heard them at least 30-seconds before they reached the perimeter of the house. There is a rushed exchange of voices; it sounds like an argument, but I can't make out the words. Daryl ninjas down the stairs without even a creak of wood and throws me look—he swallows heavily and holds my gaze intensely before darting his eyes and jutting his chin toward the door.

He's telling me to go out the front door—without him.

I shake my head as my fist tightens on the handle of the chest of drawers I was preparing to use as a barricade. Daryl's eyes harden and burst into flame, as he grits his teeth at the sound of the men outside. I can only hear men's voices. There are probably six of them, and even though it's becoming clear that they don't know there are two people in here, there is no way we're both getting out of here unscathed, if at all. I swallow back the sound of my breath and watch Daryl distinctly mouth the word, "Go." And then the back door opens.

##

From a bird's-eye view, I can see Daryl inside the house with the men. After a brief face-off, Daryl put his cross bow down. Now they seem to be getting along, at least the strangers seem to relax; Daryl's still at the ready, I can tell. I watch him move with careful precision, staying in my sight. I can tell he knows I'm watching, too. After about an hour of them settling in and a few of them eating, I decide to stay in the tree for the night.

The next morning, I wake early to the quiet sounds of the men, including Daryl, gathering their things and leaving the house. I silently untie the knots from the rope keeping me in place in the tree, watching them get a good start on me. Then I slide out of the tree and track them into the woods.

**Bethyl rec this round is Burn One Down by Rhanon Brodie. Many thanks, also, to her insight into the drunk singalong in the movie ****_Jaws_****.**

**Let me know what y'all think so far!**


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